Dark Room (2 page)

“Fine. Just hungry.”

With a quick sideways glance, Jill verified that Beth was on the phone with a client. Then she crossed over and pulled Morgan aside, lowering her voice as she spoke. “No, you’re not just hungry. You’re exhausted. It’s no wonder Dad’s worried about you. Which, in case you haven’t figured it out, is why he’s coming here straight from the airport. Did you have another bad night?”

Morgan shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Then again, I’ve had better. It’s par for the course these days.”

Jill frowned. “Maybe I should cut back on the whole decoration thing, at least for this year.”

“Don’t you dare. Your holiday spirit has nothing to do with my nightmares. If anything, it diverts me.”

“Not really. You’re a mess.”

“I know.” Morgan didn’t try denying it. “I’m not sure why they’ve hit me so hard this year. Dr. Bloom says it’s a subconscious vicious cycle. Reading my mother’s journals triggered a stronger-than-usual connection to her and my dad; that connection prompted me to delve deeper into her journals, which, in turn, triggered more nightmares.”

“But the nightmares were worse than usual even before you found those journals buried in that box of your mother’s things. It’s been weeks since you were yourself.”

Morgan sighed, massaging her temples. “I just have this weird, creepy feeling. I can’t seem to shake it.”

Before Jill could reply, the front door buzzer sounded, followed by a rhythmic knocking and a bark of “Lunch!”

No second announcement was needed. Jill hurried over and yanked open the door. “Hey, Jonah,” she greeted the teenager who tromped in.

“Hey.” Tall and gangly, Jonah was swallowed up by his down parka and boots, with only a lock of sandy hair and the puffs of cold air he was exhaling visible. But the telltale aromas of deli meat wafting from the brown bag he carried were the only ID required.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Jill snatched the bag, opening it for an appreciative
sniff. “Corned beef on rye with mustard, and a Dr. Brown’s cherry soda. All’s right with the world.”

Shoving back his hood, Jonah acknowledged Jill’s statement with a nod. “I’ve heard those words about ten times in the last hour.”

“I’ll bet.” Jill dug around in her purse and pulled out a bill, stuffing it into Jonah’s gloved hand. “Get some pizza instead.”

“Thanks.” Gratefully, he pocketed the tip. “But I already ate. I had two pieces of your grandmother’s noodle pudding—
kugel
—” he amended, using the Yiddish word Lenny had taught him. “After all, I have a reputation to uphold.

“I’ll bank this,” he murmured on that thought.

Despite being Welsh, Jonah had been gobbling up Rhoda’s kugel since he was old enough to take the subway to Lenny’s by himself. Everyone teased him about it, but his addiction had landed him this delivery job. Lenny had hired him on the spot, offering him decent pay and unlimited kugel, while affectionately labeling him “The Kosher Kid.”

But the best perk of his job had been Lenny introducing him to Lane. Interning for a photographer with Lane’s skill and notoriety was the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Ah,” Morgan ventured. “Another donation to your camera fund.”

“Yeah.” Anticipation flickered in Jonah’s eyes, and his customary monotone took on new life. He was a quiet kid, and a bit of a geek. But he was a whiz at computers. As for photography, Morgan knew that was his passion, as was this new internship of his. Anytime those subjects came up, he lit up like Jill’s eight-foot Christmas tree.

“I saw a cool camera on eBay,” he announced. “A Canon Digital Rebel XTi. It’s got everything—even a self-cleaning sensor—anyway, if it’s still there after Lenny pays me on Friday, I’m bidding on it.”

Jill waved her arm at the three computer stations. “If you need extra money this month, our system could use a few software updates and a maintenance check. How about it?”

“Sure.” He scratched his head. “I’ve got two weeks’ vacation from school starting next week. I can put in a few days here.”

“Great.”

Jill and Jonah lapsed into computer jargon, and Morgan used the op
portunity to pluck her sandwich out of the brown bag and head for the kitchen.

She was halfway there when the front door buzzer sounded again. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Jonah open it. A tall man in a wool overcoat stepped inside. His features were concealed by a turned-up collar, but he had dark hair and a no-nonsense stance.

He folded down his collar and unbuttoned his coat. There was something decidedly familiar about him. Which meant he must be a client. And
that
meant she could kiss her pastrami good-bye.

“Hey, Jonah,” he greeted the boy. “Making a lunch delivery?”

“Yeah.” Whoever the guy was, Jonah looked surprised to see him here. “I’ve got a couple of extra sandwiches. Did you want one?”

“Nope. Already ate. But thanks.” The man’s dark gaze eased from Jonah to Jill. “I’m looking for Morgan Winter. Is she in?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Jill responded in her friendly-but-noncommittal tone that said Winshore didn’t accept walk-ins.

“No. But it’s important that I see her. Is she around?”

His voice—Morgan recognized it. And it didn’t belong to a client. Or a walk-in.

It was a wrenching memory from the past.

“I’ll check,” Jill was carefully saying. It was obvious she’d picked up on the urgency in his tone. “May I ask your name?”

Morgan had already begun retracing her steps when he replied.

“Yeah. Tell her it’s Pete Montgomery.”

J
ill looked baffled.

The name meant nothing to her. But it meant a life-altering moment to Morgan; the end of childhood, the beginning of a nightmare.

“Detective Montgomery.” She approached him on autopilot.

“So much for that scrawny little girl,” he said, extending his hand. “I feel old.”

“You don’t look old. You look the same.” Morgan’s mind was racing. She wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe his visit had nothing to do with the past. Maybe he was here for himself, to seek out the right someone.

Doubtful. He wasn’t the type. Plus, the way he’d announced himself—it smacked of police business.

She glanced down at his left hand. He was wearing a wedding ring. So much for partner seeking.

He followed her stare, awareness flickering in his eyes. He knew she was seeking confirmation—and why. “Can I speak to you alone?”

“Of course.” Nodding, she led the way to the first-floor conference
room. She could feel Beth’s curious gaze and Jill’s anxious one. She probably should have offered them an explanation, or at least an introduction. But she was having trouble holding it together.

She shut the door behind them and turned to face him. “How are you, Detective? It’s been a long time.”

“Long enough for you to grow up and start your own business.” He eyed her for a moment, then glanced around the sleekly decorated conference room. “Nice setup. I checked out your website. It says that Winshore is a boutique social agency. What’s that—a high-class dating service?”

Morgan sensed he was trying to put her at ease, and she forced a smile. “It’s a specialized matching agency. Jill and I started it up for busy professionals who are looking for a life partner, but whose lives and careers make it impossible for them to invest the time and the energy necessary to find the right person. We provide one-on-one screening, and sophisticated methods of personality analysis and matching. We’ve got dozens of success stories. Marriages, happily-ever-afters, lifelong partnerships.”

“Okay, then, a matchmaking service for rich CEOs who want you to weed out the crud for them.” Detective Montgomery shot her a wry grin. “Sorry. I’m just yanking your chain. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” Morgan assured him. “Believe me, I’ve heard just about every comment there is to hear—from curiosity to good-natured teasing like yours to outright insults. I can handle them all.”

“Sounds like you love your work.”

“I do. We benefit a large chunk of the New York population who are comfortable professionally and financially, but are still very lonely.” She paused, then found herself sharing the rest. Somehow she needed him to know—because of who he was, because of how he’d factored into her life. “That’s the bulk of our business. But recently I started up a separate branch, in honor of my mother. It’s composed of women who’ve survived abusive relationships and are looking for healthy ones. For those clients, our fees are waived.”

He got it. She saw understanding flash across his face. “That’s a great tribute to your mother. I’m sure she’d be proud.”

“I hope so.”

“You said your partner’s name is Jill—I assume you mean Jill Shore, the congressman’s daughter? Which would explain the name ‘Winshore.’”

“Yes.” A nod. “You know that Elyse and Arthur became my guardians. I grew up with Jill. She’s like a sister.” Morgan broke off, fiddled with the raglan sleeve of her sweater. “Detective Montgomery, please forgive me for being blunt, but you picked a really awkward time to drop by. The holidays are still very painful for me. This year’s worse than usual. And now you show up…” She swallowed. “Please tell me how I can help you.”

“Why is this year worse than usual?”

His gruff question caught Morgan off guard. It was almost as if he knew something she didn’t.

“I’ve been sorting through some memorabilia,” she replied carefully.

“Is that the only reason?”

She’d forgotten what an intuitive man he was. There was no point in supplying half-truths.

“Actually, no. But it’s the only reason that makes sense. The rest—it’s just a feeling. A creepy, unsettled one that’s been hanging on for weeks. There’s no basis for it. I just can’t shake it.”

“Oh, there’s a basis for it. It’s called a mental connection, or a sixth sense, or whatever the hell you call that inexplicable link that sometimes exists.” Detective Montgomery dragged a palm over his jaw.

There was no denying where this was headed, and a cold knot formed in Morgan’s gut. “The reason you’re here—it has something to do with my parents’ murders?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth thinned into a grim line, his brows drawn. “Nate Schiller didn’t kill your parents.”

Morgan stared at him blankly. She’d heard what he’d said, but his words might just as well have been gibberish.

“You’re wrong,” she said at last. “That’s impossible. He was convicted. He confessed. Plus, the pattern…it fit his MO. The prosecution proved it. He’s guilty.”

“That’s what everyone working the case thought. They were wrong.
The same night your parents died, a cop and a gang leader were shot to death in Harlem. The times of the two crimes were concurrent. Which means two separate perps. The D.A. just got new evidence to support that. Nate Schiller was in Harlem that night, which means someone else killed your parents.”

“Oh my God.” Morgan leaned back against the wall, using its solid weight to brace her. “But why would he confess if he didn’t…”

“He knew he’d be doing time no matter what, but perps who kill gang leaders don’t fare well at Sing Sing.” A tense pause. “Are you all right?”

“No.”

He scowled, looking pained and disgusted. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. But frankly, I don’t think mincing words would make it any easier to bear.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t.” Morgan forced out the next question. “Do the police know who
did
do it?”

“Not yet. But they’re working on it.”

“They?”
Her head came up. “Not you?”

“I’m not with the department anymore. I retired five years ago. I’m on my own now; a PI.”

“Yet you’re the one here, telling me the news.”

“That was my choice. You’ll be getting official word from the D.A. this afternoon. A contact of mine tipped me off. Your parents’ homicides were my case. I feel responsible.”

“You felt responsible then, too,” Morgan reminded him.

She hadn’t forgotten. She’d never forget. He’d been a true hero; a knight in shining armor to a little girl faced with a horror that no amount of time could erase.

She’d been in shock when he’d arrived at the scene. Elyse and Arthur had already been notified. They’d gotten there in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t respond to them.

Arthur had summoned a grief counselor. But it was Detective Montgomery who’d taken charge. He’d handled things just right, wrapping a blanket around her to stop the shivering, speaking to her in gentle but
steady tones. When she’d balked at the Shores’ overtures to take her home, he’d suggested they give her some space. And when she’d stuck to his side like glue, he’d advised Elyse and Arthur to get in their car and follow him to the police precinct.

He’d put her in his car and driven her to the Sutter Avenue police station. She remembered the sign, because its bold-lettered designation: 75th precinct, police department city of new york had looked so official and intimidating.

Detective Montgomery had guided her past the seedy-looking people and up the stairs to a skinny kitchenette that looked like her school cafeteria, only smaller and messier. He’d brought her a hot chocolate and sat down beside her. Then, he’d talked—about his kids, about how he wasn’t living with them right now and how hard that separation was for him, about how no distance could ever break the bond between parent and child.

He told her that her parents would always love her. Always be with her. No matter how far away heaven was from earth.

That’s when the dam had broken. She’d cried—no, sobbed. Big, gulping sobs that racked her body and tore her heart into fragments. Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. She’d cried until her body was too exhausted to continue, at which point she’d slid down, curled up across two tattered chairs, and fallen asleep. Vaguely, she remembered Detective Montgomery carrying her into a small, musty room with stacks of files and storage boxes—and a cot. He’d placed her on it, and tucked a blanket around her before he left. He’d made sure the door was ajar so she could hear voices—his included. He’d even left on a light so she wouldn’t be scared.

Months later, after dozens of therapy sessions that enabled her to begin dealing with that night, Morgan had started taking emotional baby steps. She let Elyse in enough to ask questions to fill in the blanks. She’d learned that Detective Montgomery had worked with the Shores and the counselor. He’d called several times over the intervening months to check up on her, to make sure she was holding up.

She hadn’t been surprised. She’d been touched. He was a good, kind
man. She’d tried to express that in the note she eventually wrote to him.

But that first night, she’d felt nothing. She’d been numb. She’d stayed with the Shores because they were the closet thing to family she had left, and because that was what her parents had wanted. Anything more seemed impossible. Love them? No way. Not when she was so filled with pain and anger. All she wanted was to turn back time, wave a magic wand and have her parents alive and with her again.

Elyse and Arthur had been wonderful. They’d tried so hard, offering her everything from time and tenderness to the best medical care and the finest crisis counselors and child therapists money could buy.

She was grateful. That part had come easily. But the rest had taken longer.

“Remembering?” Detective Montgomery interrupted her musings to ask.

“Yes.” Morgan raised her head and met his gaze. “I was remembering how astute you were. You never pushed. You never told me what I was supposed to feel. You let me grieve. You didn’t intrude, but you didn’t walk away. Without you, I’m not sure I would have gotten through that night.”

“You’re giving me way too much credit. You had a lot of people in your corner. Besides, you were a trouper.”

“I didn’t feel like a trouper. I felt like my life had ended.”

“It had. You’ve rebuilt it.”

“I suppose.” Morgan folded her arms across her breasts and rubbed the sleeves of her sweater with her hands. She suddenly felt cold. “But scars like the ones I have don’t go away. Not completely. So hearing this bomb you’ve just dropped—it’s like the wounds are being ripped open again.”

“Yeah.” He acknowledged that reality with a scowl. “I wish like hell I could make this go away. The last thing I want is to deprive you of your peace of mind. It took long enough for you to find it.”

The sincerity of his words touched her. “You’re still a very kind man.”

“I’m a very
pissed
man. Don’t kid yourself. I want this case solved. I plan to keep close tabs on it until the real perp is caught.”

“What makes you think that’ll happen?” Morgan bit out. “The case got botched when it was new. Now it’s old. Plus, you’re out of the picture. To me, that says the odds of solving this are next to nil. The real animal who cold-bloodedly shot my parents to death will keep walking the streets a free man—just like he has been for the past seventeen years.” Morgan’s voice quavered, the impact of her own words sinking in. “God,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her hands against her face. “How can this be happening?”

“I don’t have an answer. But it sucks.” Detective Montgomery didn’t insult her with placating words. He just walked over to the sideboard, picked up the pitcher of ice water that was sitting there, and poured her a glass. “Here.” He pressed it into her hand.

“Thank you.” Morgan took a deep swallow. “I didn’t mean to lace into you like that.”

“You didn’t. You’re frustrated and in shock. You have a right to be. You also have a point. This case has been closed for ages. But don’t underestimate the clout that Congressman Shore wields. He’s a high-ranking member of the House of Representatives, a big shot on the House Committee for Financial Services. New Yorkers love him. So does most of the country. He’s got pull—
and
visibility. And he’s sponsoring a high-profile bill. The noise Congressman Shore is bound to make will give the powers that be the incentive they need to hang in there until they get it right.”

The censure in Detective Montgomery’s tone was hard to miss—as was its meaning. “You never were totally on board with the findings of the previous investigation,” Morgan realized aloud.

“I had my doubts,” he replied bluntly. “But that’s all they were—doubts. I didn’t have a shred of proof. Then Schiller confessed. So I assumed my instincts were unfounded.”

“You assumed wrong.”

“Yeah, well, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

Morgan studied his expression. She wasn’t fooled by his flippant remark or his stoic facade. “You’re still beating yourself up for not exhausting all the possibilities.”

“I wasn’t given a choice. Am I kicking myself? Sure. But regret is part of life.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not this time.” Morgan set down her glass. “Handle this investigation. Find my parents’ killer.”

His brows arched slightly. “I already told you I’m off the force.”

“You also told me you’re a PI. Well, I’m a client. Name your price. I’ll find a way to pay it. I don’t have faith in the cops, or the D.A. I have faith in you.”

“That’s flattering. But the D.A. thinks I’m a pain in the ass. So does my old boss. I wouldn’t be doing you any favors by taking this on.”

“Yes, you would. You’re not the type to be intimidated by people, or by protocol. You’d get around both.”

“You think so?” He looked amused. “Maybe sometimes. But this isn’t one of those times. Believe me, no matter how low I fly under the radar, I’ll still show up on their screen. The sparks would fly.”

“A part of you would relish that,” Morgan guessed shrewdly. “You’d take on the system—and you’d win.”